


If I fall apart put me back together

by Bananas45



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Connor, Canon Compliant, Existential Angst, Fear Play, Injury, M/M, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Trauma, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Wire Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22210696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bananas45/pseuds/Bananas45
Summary: “Sometimes I think I…” He’s looking for a word, any word except the one he’s going to have to use. “Feel something for you and I’ve let it get in the way of doing my job and I’m kidding myself if I think I...made those calls you praised me for in the investigation for the mission and not for- and not to -”Connor sighs, ragged and harsh. There is something unnatural about it’s tenor.“You were told to win me over weren’t you?”“Exclusively” Connor says, voice soft. “Not… Be won over”Set directly after the Public Enemy chapter.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 21
Kudos: 236





	If I fall apart put me back together

**Author's Note:**

> I'm basically two years late to playing this game but I don't care. I love these two so much and for some reason that whole deviant attack scene in the kitchen was just too much for my tiny little mind.

He has an urge to cover him up. Twitching in the snow, covered in blood- or whatever it is he’s spouting - shirt ripped open and clutching his hand to his chest like an injured dog. 

They sit in the car. Snow whipping against the window. Windshield wipers punctuating the silence. Connor hasn’t blinked in a long time, clearly too preoccupied to remember to. 

Hank shudders at that, all these little things that remind him what he is. Connor’s done such a good job wriggling into his heart with his faux good nature and humanity and now he’s saved his _life_ . Fuck it, he feels indebted. Indebted to something that isn’t even real - even deviant or at his highest form of emulation - Connor isn’t _real._

But it doesn’t stop him asking anyway. 

“Are you, y’know, okay?…” He looks over at the blinking red LED at the side of Connor’s head, the blank stare in his eyes. He knows that look, regardless of the fact Connor broadcasts his emotions via that little traffic light at his temple. He’s seen it in officers, in himself, in his _wife_. He’s in shock. 

He thinks this might be the first time he’s seen Connor look truly unravelled. Sure, he’s seen him shaken before. Clothes rumpled, breath laboured but he recovers in seconds. He was stabbed over half an hour ago now and he’s, well he’s not spoken since. 

That single strand of pretty soft hair doesn’t look greasy or out of place, like it would on anyone else mortally wounded. Although he can hear Connor’s breath, soft and synthetically even, it’s not harsh or pained. His skin is still perfect. It’s uncanny. It makes Hank want to shake him, slap him, stick his finger into that open wound on his hand. 

“I cried out for you” 

Hank turns his head but doesn’t want to say anything. Connor has an awful tendency to instantly adapt. To say just what Hank wants to hear to avoid conflict. 

Not for the sake of avoidance of conflict though. _Just for the mission._

“I don’t even know why I did it...I knew you couldn’t hear” Connor sounds, fuck, apologetic. Apologetic for being irrational. Fucking classic. 

“What happened to you in there?” 

He puts his hand on Connor’s shoulder, slides it onto the slender blazered shoulder. God that material is thin. He would be freezing if he were - if he were what? He doesn’t finish the thought.

Hank wants to push, push and push. That’s one thing he’s noticed about these deviants. Pushed to the very edge, the type of edge that breaks most humans, their programmes can’t handle it. He thinks Cyberlife should make them more robust - mentally, that is - not _physically._ People barely treat each other with respect, of course their products would get roughed up. 

Connor looks over, tilts his head back to meet Hank’s eyes and he sees a lot there. More than he ever thought he could see in glorified Ipad. Those brown eyes flicker, he’s wound tight with conflict, it trickles through him. 

“What’re you thinking?” 

Connor’s eyes flutter shut, lips parting as he sorts through himself. Hank let’s him...load? He doesn’t want to freak him out. Not now that they’re so close to something. Whatever it is, Hank isn’t sure but he’s never been one to back down from a challenge because of the unknown. Neither has Connor. 

“I...I’m not sure” Connor sits back. Their proximity clearly unnerving him more. 

“I tried to probe one of the station androids. I knew it must have known something but it was smart. Overpowered me. It pulled out my thirium pump regulator-” 

“What, like Your heart?” Hank interjects and without realising his hand slides a little down the boy’s arm, grip hard around the blue stripe. 

Connor blinks, coming back to himself. 

“My-” He shakes his head, like Hank doesn’t _get_ it and then smiles in a way that can’t be anything other than condescending. “If you want to call it that, sure” 

He’s just listing the events, Hank realises. He’s barely present. He lets his gaze linger. He’s mighty shiney in profile. Beautiful, actually. He must cost a fortune, really he must. Those normal ones, the ones who clean toilets and all that. _They’re_ expensive as is and they don’t joke and process crime scenes and make split second life or death decisions. They also don’t hesitate, or morally ponder or _hunt_ each other. 

It’s more than just his big computer brain, Hank realises. Connor really is charming, funny and kind and throws himself into danger like it’s a walk in the park. 

He remembers that night he held him at gunpoint, features impassive even as Hank’s fingers shook around the gun. 

_Are you afraid to die?_

“And your hand?” Hank asks, he wonders if Connor can detect the drop in his voice, the softness that’s creeped into it. 

Connor looks at it, almost as though he doesn’t recognise it as his own. He turns over his own slender perfect wrist. A clean cut, straight through his palm. The skin around it is that silicon white colour and the circuitry is open, exposed. 

“I thought you don’t feel pain” Hank murmurs. 

“I can emulate it” Connor answers. 

“Meaning?” 

“I emulated it” His voice has dropped too, soft and a little bitter. 

_Emulation._ Hank reminds himself. 

He takes Connor’s hand like it’s some delicate piece of evidence. The city is alight with red and blue tonight. Hunting and prowling through the city. It paints them both. The red and blue alternate across Connor’s remarkably soft features. 

It’s probably some processing tick, something calibrating that makes Connor’s fingers twitch as Hank runs his index finger along the seam of the cut. 

“Y’know this would be pretty septic by now if you were human” Hank says. 

“If I were” Connor says and it could be the night air, the exhaustion of working such an intensive case but to Hank, Connor almost sounds longing. 

He trails his fingers over the wet, severed wires and Connor shifts in his seat, breath stuttering. 

  
“You are pretty special” 

Connor _gasps_ and hauls his hand back. He looks, well, flustered. Like girls who don’t know what to do when their crushes compliment their hair in all these silly drama shows. 

“That’s very nice but you ought to get home. We have-” 

Jesus. 

“You’re trembling, Connor” He sits back. He would be amused if he weren’t so surprised by the visceral reaction a compliment had on the boy - robot - _thing._

“I’m _processing_ ” he practically snarls and yeah, sure enough, if that spinning yellow ring has anything to say about it. It flickers softly and Connor’s jaw sets. 

“Tell me whatever it is that’s going through that head of yours” 

Connor’s mouth opens, closes and then opens again. 

“Sometimes I think you...you bait me” He’s chewing through his words like they’re glass. 

“Oh do I?” Hank asks. Bait _him._ He wants to remind Connor who spilt who’s drink on their first meeting, who broke into whose house last night. 

“I’m meant to get you on side to ease investigating and at first you _hated_ me. I never expected that to change and yet you...Sometimes how you treat me...the things you praise me for” He’s struggling on the words now. “It’s like you’re pushing me to this cliff edge and I don’t...I can’t see the bottom” 

Whoever programmed him to come up with such eloquent extended metaphors deserves an award. 

“Believe me I wanna see this thing done as much as you do” Although that’s not entirely true, Hank realises. Watching that broadcast, seeing those girls. He’s not sure he _does_ want to see it through. 

“I don’t _want_ anything” Connor insits. “It’s just...It’s just what has to be done” 

“Right” Hank eyes him. “Maybe I am pushing you too hard. I don’t hate you, you’re right about that. I don’t know what to think about you. One minute you’re so...emotive -” 

“It’s just programming” Connor says, fast and almost desperate. A point he needs to get across before Hank thinks otherwise. 

“Who are you insisting that on?” Hank snaps, before he can help himself. “Cos it ain’t me. I _know_ what you are. I know exactly what you fucking are and I’m watching every single one of you guys around me turn all lovey dovey or fucking Jeffrey Dahmer on me. So I don’t know what to expect” 

“Deviants are irrational, it’s to be expected-” 

“Irrational like crying out for help? Like saving those two girls” 

“One of them tried to kill me!” Connor shouts over him. “Came seconds away from succeeding too!” 

“Oh it’s killing is it now?” Hank says. “Not ‘shutting down’” 

Connor blinks at that, looks away and takes another shuddery breath.

“You would have been back by the morning, wouldn’t you? We got nothing from the guy anyway” Hank mutters. “So you saved yourself. That’s what you did” 

Connor gapes for a moment, jaw almost glitching. 

“I had seconds…” He says softly. “Seconds and I...I didn’t want to, I couldn’t risk -” 

“Say you were scared” Hank murmurs, his hands cupping under Connor’s chin. He can feel the steady beat of whatever he calls a heart. 

Connor can’t meet his eyes.

“I can’t…” He whispers. 

“Why?” 

“I’m...I said I could be anything for you” He looks up. “But I can’t be this, it’s dangerous...I can’t be-” 

“I’m not asking you to be this for _me,_ fucks sake. I’m trying to talk to you here, understand whatever it is you’re going through. _None_ of this is for me and if you’re doing it for me than please, please fucking stop. You’re enough of a mindfuck without pretending to be one” 

Connor swallows, what he has to swallow Hank isn’t sure but the movement is disarmingly vulnerable. Lashes fluttering shut. 

_Emulation._

“Anyway, what are you so scared off? Scared I’d turn you in?” For a moment he worries about the answer. He worries Connor doesn’t trust him anywhere near as much as he’s come to trust Conner but his head just shakes, soft and sad. 

“I’m not yours to turn it. I’m their last hope, I’m _theirs_. I’ll be taken back after this case anyway” Connor breathes out the words like he can’t bare the thought.

“But right now. Right now you are mine, aren’t you?” Hank can’t help it. He looks at the gaping white hole that’s patching itself up in Connor and he feels fucking terrified at the idea of losing him to anyone. 

Connor doesn’t answer, just looks at his hands. He’ll be considering the outcome of telling Hank the truth, that he doesn’t own him, that he never did. He thinks that’s why he fights his humanity so zealously. He has _no-one_ to fall back on. He’s tracked and he’s tailored and modified constantly and they told him he’s their _last hope_.

Hank can’t imagine being anybody's anything anymore. Farless a last hope. 

“Do you know what’ll happen after all this? After they find out what causes it?” Hank plays with that mop of brown hair. It’s just as soft as he imagined, silky and perfect to touch or tug but he’s designed like that so whatever. He can’t imagine technician sitting and planning just how synthetically soft they think this model’s hair should be. He wants Connor to tell him to stop, to show some autonomy but he doesn’t, he just drops his gaze to the dash and runs his fake tongue along his fake teeth in some fake show of fake confusion. 

“It doesn’t concern me I don’t think” He murmurs ever so softly. 

“But you want it to” 

“ _It’s_ concerning” Connor agrees. He bites his lip, leaning his head on his hand like it needs the support and stares out the window. Sometimes, after a long day or a frustrating moment or something deadly, he catches Connor’s stilited movements becoming painfully human.

“You’re self - learning right?” He asks Connor. 

“So are you”

_Smart-ass._

“You know what I mean” Hank watches as Connor’s brown eyes flicker from the hand in his hair to Hank. 

God Hank _hates_ him. Why bother with the movement at all, why fucking bother? It’s all aesthetics, it must take energy. 

“I’m revolutionarily adaptable” He says softly. 

“Does the back of your box say that?” Hank scoffs, pulling his hand back. Connor turns, as though - although he’s reading into it a lot - he misses the connection. 

“What do you want me to say?” Connor asks.

“I’ve told you what I think. I think you’re fighting the inevitable…” He hates admitting it and Connor looks fucking crestfallen. 

“Or maybe” Hank says softly, tilting his head. He looks at the flashing light at the side of Connor’s head and imagined for a moment that it must feel like a migraine, or a tension headache or something _bad_ at least. “Maybe you’ve over adapted. I’m not the most rational creature God put on the earth. Maybe you just got too far inside my head trying to get me on side or whatever” 

Connor looks comforted for maybe five seconds before he trails fingers over his ripped blue shirt. 

“Maybe” Connor shoots him a smile that literally malfunctions at the side of his lip. 

For all that emulation and adaptation he can’t lie to save his life. 

“I’m going to take you home” 

He tenses, shooting Hank a look that’s too blank to be able to decipher but must mean Connor’s so far inside his own circuits trying to understand the proposal that he’s given up trying to emote. 

“It’s okay not to be okay” Hank says softly and hates it because it’s something some grief counsellor once said to him and he’d scoffed in her face. 

“I’m…” Connor’s eyes fall somewhere close to shut. “I’m not affected like that” 

Why he sounds so torn up about it, Hank has no idea. 

Hank realises it then realises exactly what he wants. That beautiful smile, that beautiful boy. He’s only on lend and that makes him want him _more_. 

Silence stretches between them until they stop at some lights Hank doesn’t want to run incase the robot gets uppity. 

“I was scared” 

He almost misses him say it. 

  
“I was scared for you...I didn’t want you to be affected by my death” Connor’s voice is so soft, so open, so intimate. “I’ve never been allowed to fe- have a connection to anyone like I do for you and I didn’t want to lose it. Sometimes staying on your good side is like tightrope walking” 

He clasps his hands together as though he’s about to pray. 

“I never know how you’ll respond to these things” He whispers on his candid little laugh. “I never know how you’ll respond to anything I do”

Fuck him. 

“I wanna take you home and wash your clothes” He says, no room for discussion. “I wanna make sure you’re okay” 

“I’m fine. I can’t not be fine. I ran a full-” 

“Connor. Just....Don’t” 

Connor seems to understand, seems to get exactly what is required of him. 

“Would you have felt bad ...if I’d died” He asks quietly, as though he’s affording himself some indulgence he doesn’t think he deserves. 

“Bad…” Hank laughs and pulls up outside his house. “Christ Connor, I would have been devastated” 

His eyes widen and his chest, hairless and perfect dips on his silent exhale. 

The snow blows frigid in his face and he has to wince. Connor, shirt ripped and coat thin is still unflinching. Hank wants him to flinch.

Christ, Maybe he is pushing him to an edge neither of them understand. 

But he’s always had a destructive streak. Self or otherwise. 

“Sit” He uses the tone he uses on his dog when he can’t be bothered with negotiation. 

Connor slides his jacket off and folds it in that way you only see in shops, sets it down on the coffee table looks over the blood stains. 

“You don’t need to wash my clothes. They’ll be clean by morning” He’s a little more chipper when he gets to recite the Cyberlife user guide. 

“Yeah, yeah I know. I just thought you might want out of them considering you almost died in” 

Connor considers. 

“Do you want me out of them?” 

“For a moment just...just think about yourself” Hank asks, turning away to get a drink. 

The smile he gets is wry and tight. 

“Lieutenant, how many times do I-”

He slams his fridge door in frustration, so loudly Connor shoulders set back, face going blank as though the fear of Hank’s reproach made him factory reset or something. 

“You’re fucking terrified of going deviant aren’t you?” 

Connor’s eyes flash up to his and his head shakes violently. 

“I’m not _going_ deviant so it’s nothing to be afraid off”

There is a silent. 

“Besides, the act of being afraid of going deviant is…” He trails off, seemingly unable to finish and looks at his hands, something akin to despair flashes across his features. “In itself deviant” 

Hank approaches and Connor almost bolts. That’s a difficult catch 22 Connor’s written himself. 

“Can I at least clean your stomach or something?” 

“You don’t have to” 

“But I want to” 

Connor’s jaw sets and he lets himself settle back in what Hank guesses is some approximation of relaxed. 

“The thirium will fade” He shrugs and rubs his hands. It’s a practiced little movement Hank’s seen a billion times because they clearly gave up programming him an extensive list of casual, _human_ movements and so can’t help but repeat them whenever he’s been too still or stilted or clearly inhuman. 

“Not to you it won’t” Hank says. “You can detect it right?” 

Connor’s eyes do something strange. They go far away for a moment before they focus on Hank like he’s the most important thing in the world. 

“You remembered that” 

Now Hank feels flustered. 

“I’m a detective” He mutters. “I do actually _listen_ ” 

He throws him the only vaguely white shirt he owns from a basket in the corner and leans against the bunker of his kitchen. 

“Those things feel cheap” Hank mutters as Connor folds it into a perfect square and sets it on his table. “Like a little fucking kids halloween costume” 

Connor huffs a laugh but rubs the material of Hank’s shirt between his thumb and forefinger. Somewhere between analytical and sentimental in a way only Connor can look. 

  
“I’m sorry it offends you so much” 

“Maybe after all this is done I’ll take you thrifting. Get you a real jumper” He wants to break the tension, should do it by turning for a beer he’s practically aching for but then he’d miss the minutiae of Connor’s reactions. 

Connor tenses, gaze tightening and Hank regrets it instantly. 

“You know…” Connor chokes, _chokes_ on the words. “Once this is over-” 

“Yeah, yeah you go onto much more fun cases” Hank waves a hand. Ignores the way his own gut twists because really, he shouldn’t be this fucking sentimental. 

Connor clutches the side of the kitchen table like he’ll fall if he doesn’t. 

“Maybe” He says. “Most likely I’ll be deactivated. I’m just a prototype” 

Hank feels genuine existential dread crawl up his spine in a way he hasn’t in years. God knows what Connor must be feeling or ignoring or _filing_ away or repressing. 

How fucking tough. Hunting your own kind who’ve gotten a freedom you can only dream off with a ticking time bomb of your own demise over your head that you have to run towards. 

No wonder Connor has no sense of self preservation. 

“That’s sucky” Is all he can manage to say in response. God forbid he comfort Connor in any meaningful way. He comforts _himself_ in the knowledge that Connor doesn’t need it. 

But he does. He does and Hank can see the cracks forming in a way he doesn’t think anyone else has the time to. Cyberlife are ignorant if they think sending a fox into a fox den - as well trained as it is - isn’t gonna fuck it up. Connor’s software is good but it _can’t_ be that good. 

“Earlier at the station when I almost -” he chokes on the word. Hank hadn’t even noticed how close he’d gotten but Connor is almost backed him against the bunker. The blood really has faded, the wonders of technology but it’s left him looking haunted over fuck nothing. The only evidence the skin that hasn’t formed back over his stomach yet. It should be repulsive. It would be to any other person who claims to hate androids as much as Hank does but somehow it isn’t. 

“I can’t describe how I felt” 

Oh fuck he’s asking Hank. He’s asking Hank to help him understand and Hank _knows._ Knows exactly what Connor probably felt and he feels wrong for telling him. Feels like Connor shouldn’t have the burden of deviance and feels even _worse_ about deciding that. 

“Try” he decides on. 

“Acrid” He murmurs. “Right in my throat. I could practically taste it, like iron but I don't bleed. It was like I couldn’t think straight or-” He stops himself, straightens out. 

_Fear._

“This…” Connor trails off and Hank notices his breath is shaky and uneven. That light at the side of his head a steady bright red. “This doesn’t have to mean anything does it?” 

Hank can’t help but lean forward. He places his hand over Connor’s forehead as though he’s checking for a temperature but the skin is cool under his palm. He sweeps stray strands of hair out his eyes and takes a good, good look at him. 

God he’s fucking real. Perfect, sure but he does seem human in an odd kind of way. Human’s don’t make as intense eye contact, or stand as still but they do get that look in their eyes, that hopeless, defeated look. 

Connor looks so tired. Tired and scared. Scared of himself, of what he’s becoming, of what the end of the line is. Confliction and fear. He has _no-one_ because he’s not meant to need anyone. 

He understands now. He understands how they go deviant. Nothing and no-one, seen as objects by those who can stand them and treated worse than dirt but those who resent them. Made to seem human but not to be human. Even fucking elevators break down, just in a less revolutionary fashion. 

“Hey” His voice has dropped, almost a whisper. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay” 

Connor’s eyes flutter as he deciphers the tone, Hank’s close enough that he can hear the way his brain clicks and whirs. 

God that’s fucking weird. 

He slides his hand down and almost has to pull away. That LED is hot, the skin around it too. 

“You’re…” 

“I know” Connor almost sounds tetchy. His jaw opens in some form of relief when Hank runs a cool thumb over the flickering light. It spins back to yellow.

“You like that?” He smiles, keeps going, like he would with a dog until it whirs a soft blue again, almost the same blue as Hank’s eyes. That’s ridiculous. He just comforted a robot and it felt _good_. 

“It’s...It’s…” He shudders and then moves back, smiles perfectly politely and opens his mouth. “If it makes you feel better, Lieutenant” 

“It’s not about me” Hank snarls. He hates Connor’s stupid ‘all for you’ shit he pulls. “You know when you’re faking making friends with someone? You don’t keep reminding them you’re faking it” 

Connor visibly flinches. Hank is instantly reminded why has no friends period. 

His conversations with Connor always go like this. Start with a little sense of hope and love and down spiral into why Hank _hates_ androids. 

“I know that” Connor says. “It’s for me, because I…” 

But then Connor does this, pushed to that proverbial edge. Hank watches the way he visibly fights back telling Hank how he feels. It must be fucking exhausting, holding your tongue like that. He has no idea how Connor manages it. 

“Sometimes I think I…” He’s looking for a word, any word except the one he’s going to have to use. “ _Feel_ something for you and I’ve let it get in the way of doing my job and I’m kidding myself if I think I...made those calls you praised me for in the investigation for the mission and not for- and not to -” 

Connor sighs, ragged and harsh. There is something unnatural about it’s tenor. 

“You were told to win me over weren’t you?” 

“Exclusively” Connor says, voice soft. “Not… Be won over” 

What a fucking admission. Christ. Fuck. Hank can feel himself repress a shudder. It’s hot, god it’s hot. And Hank has never gotten kicks out of watching those lights spin red when he intentionally kicks away wrenches used by construction androids, he’s not that kind of asshole. 

He’s just plain despised them. 

But this is so different. Connor, Fucking _Connor_ , who strolled into a bar full of people who wanted to rip him limb for limb. Who easily ratted on a terrified member of his own god damn species. Who broke into his house and threw him in a bath and didn’t blink an eye at any of it. 

Connor who wasn’t even afraid to die. 

“This doesn’t mean I’ll stop” He says, suddenly defensive. “I just needed to tell you. Maybe to clear the air. I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable” 

A clock Hank thought had stopped ticking years ago suddenly seems deafening. The tap leaks every 5 seconds apparently. 

“Can-” he has to clear his throat. “Can I touch you?” 

He prays Connor won’t just say yes for the sake of yes but the way he doesn’t answer, just gives a short nod before looking at his hands again, well it screams nervous, alive and twitching. 

He pulls up a chair, wood screeching across the floor as he settles beside Connor who looks pointedly at the severed wires in his palm. He takes it again but watches Connor closer. 

“Will this close on it’s on?” 

Connor nods again, absent. 

“How’s it feel?” 

Connor’s teeth grind. 

  
“I don’t know what you want me to say…” Connor watches Hank, a little wary, as though he doesn’t quite trust Hank’s touch. 

He takes a wire that’s coming out at an odd angle and Connor hand twitches. 

“Uh, peddle me that ‘I don’t feel’ shit’” Hank pulls a little and the wire comes out with him. 

“It’s a motor connection” Connor says but his mouth set in a grim line. “You’re making my hand jump”   
  


“It’s not uncomfortable?” 

The room has gotten heavy, as though the air has gotten denser around them. Static with tension, even if this should be simple. Nothing is simple between them anymore, if it was ever. Hank feels a strange power rush, holding Connor open like this. There is an intimacy to it that makes Hank’s chest tighten, his breath harder. 

“On a purely” Connor sounds breathless “Philosophical level, maybe. Considering you’re playing with my veins for all intents and purposes”

Hank rubs the wire between his fingers. It does feel like a vein, rubbery and damp. Connor’s hand opens, fingers twitching. 

“Connor…” He can’t help the tone. It’s been such, such a long time since he’s felt desire like this for anyone. But - and it’s a big but - this would be taking advantage. Connor’s unstable, clearly and entirely unsure of who he is or _what_ he is. 

But Connor is also the fastest processing _thing_ on the market. He’s not naive, as much as his creators try to make him seem. Connor’s disarmingly goofy, seemingly unthreatening but Hank’s seen him, seen the way he thinks, how he acts. It’s all a show. 

The look Connor gives him, in his dim lit kitchen, demure and analytical, eyebrow ever so slightly risen, the moonlight catching the brown of his eyes, even with the soft white light you can see behind them, drives Hank crazy. 

“Yes?” 

He grabs the collar of Connor’s shirt and hauls him forward. He goes easily, as he always does. Hank’s never seen him resistant and that makes him unsure again, just for a moment, if this is some elaborate scheme to get Hank’s guard down even more. 

Well fuck it. It’s worked. 

His hand doesn’t come naturally to Hank’s shoulder or waist, He doesn’t grasp him and moan as he shoves his tongue down Hank’s throat. His lips part softly and a little breath tumbles against Hank’s own. 

He tastes like a dentist’s office. Clinical and ever so slightly minty but kind of plastic too. He gets the side of Connor’s jaw, tilts it up to deepen the kiss and Connor’s lashes brush softly against his cheek as his mouth opens more. He shudders, tipping his head away to catch a ragged breath. His hand landing on Hank’s chest as though to hold him back. His index finger trailing is own bottom lip softly. 

His eyes are wide and he’s breathing through his nose, perfectly still. Hank can’t really imagine what he’s thinking right now. Hank can’t really remember the first time he was kissed, can’t really remember if it made him so amazed. 

But this is Connor, it’s probably some in depth learning experience - or that’s what he’s convincing himself to justifying indulgence. It feels unfair that he can watch the side of Connor’s head work through it. It flashes red twice before it settles on a steady yellow. Then Connor turns again, sharper and faster. Fingers driving into Hank’s hair, wrapping and tugging as he crushes their lips together with so much _desire_ that Hank has to catch his waist to stop them falling to the floor. 

His tongue is still cool, still wraps effortlessly around Hank’s but there is a heat in the back of his throat Hank can feel, as though it’s bubbling up inside him. Systems overheating, codes ignored, Connor’s fingers tense and twitch against Hank’s scalp as he trails a hand down the ripped buttons of his shirt to exposed plastic of his stomach. 

Connor hisses against his lips as calloused hands press against the regulator working in overtime to keep Connor from passing out - or his android equivalent. 

He’s gripping Hank’s shoulders now and when Hank pulls back to try and make eye contact, Connor jaw drops as he drags in a desperate breath. 

“Are you okay?” Hank strokes his cheek, perfectly soft. 

Connor’s eyes meet his, eyelids drooped and lips wet. 

“I’m not designed for this” Connor’s head shakes softly. Hank can’t tell if it’s an apology or a ‘Stop’ or what. “And- and I think it would be a mistake” 

Hank nods but Connor’s tone is easy to read. He’s just confused, maybe a little conflicted. 

“Would it help if I told you what I want?” Hank takes taps two fingers against the top of Connor’s hand, just to get his attention. Connor looks up. 

“Yes” He says, relief palpable. 

That’s fucked. It almost makes Hank want to push him away. Tell him he’s the _last_ thing on the planet that Hank could ever want. But he thinks that might break Connor. 

“I wanna take you to my bedroom” 

Connor’s eyes flutter in perfect syncopation with the light at the side of his head. 

He wants to make Connor beg, to unravel whatever half inch of humanity he’s been infected with and draw it out. He wants to _ruin_ him at the expense of both their investigation and Connor’s existence. 

But he can’t say that. 

“I think you’d like that to” 

Connor’s eyes meet his with that raw honesty he’s seen a million times before. 

But it’s something about seeing it in this context that makes Hank’s stomach turn. How many times Connor’s looked at him like that, how many times he’s pushed him away with a sharp word. 

“Yes” Connor murmurs and he looks painfully self-loathing for admitting it. “I think I would” 

  
  


There are more things Connor doesn’t like than he does. He doesn’t like Hank touching him, he really doesn’t want to get undressed and he takes his time when they kiss in a way that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. All prone lines of plastic and hands shifting under Hank’s shirt as he laps at Hank’s lips and sighs in a way that shudders mechanically out of him. 

Hank knows the feeling. They’re uncannily similar sometimes. Both terrified of opening up, regardless of how desperately they try to understand each other. 

Connor’s too scared to say what Hank wants him to say and maybe he has a point. Maybe Hank has cracked, maybe he’s projecting all these feelings onto Connor just so he can feel something himself. Creating a narrative to a story Connor can’t even understand. Connor’s weaseled his way into understanding Hank because that’s what these machines do. They understand, they take little things you tell them and then cyberlife sells your information to hack fucking advertisers. Or at least that’s what the documentary said. 

He tugs on Connor’s hair when his mouth moves south. 

“You don’t have to do that” He says as Connor opens his shirt with unnatural ease. 

His eyebrow just quirks in response as he straddles Hank’s thighs. Still fully dressed, breathing already even after moaning seconds earlier. So goddamn perfect. 

“Don’t -” Hank feels _insane_ and Connor looks so inhumane in the dim and dusky bedroom that Hank can’t hide what this is from himself. “I don’t want you to feel like you _have_ to” 

“But you want it?” Connor’s hand trails over down his side, over a twenty year old scar he’s probably pulled the incident file up on already and down to his belt. 

_Do I want it?_ I mean, no one turns down a fucking blow-job, especially not drunk, overworked and struggling with a crush on the partner who’s offering like it’s doing your laundry for you. 

Regardless, he takes Hank’s silence as a yes, leaning down and sighing softly. His nose balanced on the rim of his belt, eyes half closed. He replicates arousal pretty well, all breathy moans and fluttering eyes. He’s a horribly fast learner. 

Connor’s hands are so fucking nimble it takes seconds for his trousers to be round his knees and Connor to be perched over him. He doesn’t hesitate like most would, as though he’s pre-constructed exactly what he planned to do before he even tried for efficiency's sake, not self-consciousness. 

He’s good, he’s really good or it’s been too long for Hank. Maybe a mixture of both. Connor’s always unsure until he’s got a direct objective and he’s got one now, making Hank swear and pull his hair as he puts that fucking _filthy_ mouth to use- 

And then he pulls back, so suddenly Hank isn’t sure what to do about it. His head thrown back, whole body quivering for a moment. 

“Connor?”   
  


A silence spreads between them. Connor looks ruined, ever so slightly blue drool running down his cheek, hair mused, shirt open and chest convulsing in some pitiful attempt at heavy breathing. 

“I didn’t take into account how sensitive my tongue is” He says. Fingers tracing it, dipping in and out of his mouth. 

You can’t respond to something like that because no-one ever _says_ anything like that. Hank’s bad feelings at the best of times but that, truly, sends a rush of heat through him like nothing _he’s_ ever felt. 

“I’m going to fuck you now okay? Can I do that? Can I fuck you?” he leans up, unable not to, kissing his way down from Connor’s hairline to his lips again. 

“Theoretically” Connor murmurs into the kiss. 

“That’s really fucking reassuring” 

But he knows Connor wouldn’t have offered - if that was even an offer - if it wasn’t a possibility. 

He pushes Connor back, lets him hit the sheets, spread out and looking up. 

He trails a hand over his stomach, down to where the skin buckles a little from the rupture. He curls a hand gently around what was pulled out earlier. Connor’s hand grabs his wrist. 

Their eyes meet. Connor looks terrified, jaw dropped, LED lighting the whole room red, casting a shadow of their joined bodies up the wall but he doesn’t look terrified of Hank. Just of himself. 

“What?” Hank asks. 

“Just - I thought you wanted to fuck me” Connor says blandly. “This isn’t -” He pauses “That’s not what you fuck”

“I do and don’t fucking patronise me I know what I’m fucking” Hank says, but he’s intrigued now. He twists, not fully unplugging, just listening to the way the safeties click. 

Connor cries out, arching off the bed. 

“Am I hurting you?” Hank asks, even if he knows for a fact he’s not. Connor’s convulsing, eyes fluttering, beautifully open. 

“This isn’t - isn’t -” He tries. “Please, I was good at sucking you off wasn’t I-” He sits up weakly. “I’ll keep doing that -” 

Deflection, classic Connor. He’ll insist he doesn’t want anything until he blows a fuse. It’s also telling all Connor wants to do is a good job, still desperate to please Hank. Still probably writing this off as a way for them to get closer, still within mission parameters. 

It’s funny because all Hank wants to do is please _him_. See him feel something. Hank could happily blue ball himself all night just to get a reaction out of Connor. Just to see something. Hank’s not going to be decommissioned anytime soon. Connor, well, he’s on a timer apparently. 

“What’ll happen if I take this out?” 

Connor’s grip is weakening on his wrist and his eyes go heavy, a moan slipping out. 

“I’ll have a two minutes before I shut down” He stutters out. 

“This what happened today?” Hank pulls a little, finger dipping into hole it leaves. 

Connor nods weakly. A groan slipping out, slightly static, from his lips. Trauma sometimes does that, Hank knows, makes you crave shit you wouldn’t ever think you could want. Connor can’t know the intricacies of arousal just yet. Hank’s just upset that this might be his only experience.

“AH- That’s good-” Connor whispers, sounding more confused than anything else, as though he’s more shocked by himself than Hank doing this. He pulls it out further, it’s still connected, even if a harsh tug would pull the whole thing out. Just above it he can see Connor’s glowing heart. 

“I- I actually would die without that” Connor says, static and whispery. Hank slides two fingers into the hole anyway. 

Connor’s howl cuts out halfway through and he goes straight under Hank, fingers clawing the sheets. 

It’s easy to get lost in it. Almost like raking around inside an overheated engine, slick with oil. He’s done that plenty of times. 

Infact, it’s almost a hobby of his. Making old engines purr. 

He’s pretty sure he can make Connor more than purr. 

“Please-” 

“Please what?” he sounds absent, even to himself. He circles the part back around the socket, teasing putting it back in. Only then does he notice the nasty way the cable hangs, still roughened from being forced apart a few hours ago. He thumbs across the damage. 

Connor eyes flutter in a way that’s not at all human, rolling back into his head. There are tears rolling down his face, back into his hairline, he doesn’t seem to be aware he’s spilling. 

It leaks blue down Hank’s fingers, viscous and almost sticky. He rubs it harder. He can almost hear Connor’s warning signs. He watches the speed of Connor’s heart, frantic and out of time. Probably because Hank’s holding the regulator, would figure. 

He looks back, He’s kicked a shoe off in the process somehow and his toes are curled against his socks, skidding for purchase. 

“You’re unreal” Hank mutters, unable not to. He’s a travesty, this stupid fucking robot. 

Connor tries to sit up on his elbows. 

“Can't you just take me?” He whispers, one pupil slightly larger than the other, as though he can’t focus. Brow knit. 

_Take me before I have to admit what this is._

Hank’s no stranger to emotional distance, he’s got a lot of mileage but watching Connor do it now is just tragic. He puts the regulator back and Connor lets out a soft sigh of relief as he shucks of his slacks. Hank throws them before he gets a chance to fold them and for all of a second before he hits the pillow, Connor looks affronted. 

“They built you with a really nice fucking ass” Hank says, lifting him halfway onto his lap. Connor blinks, tongue balanced on his lip.

“I’m glad you think so” 

It’s all meant to be nice, not even perfect, just nice. Connor could make anyone like him. He wonders if Cyberlife asked the DPD to put Connor with him, just to give him the challenge, see if Connor’s software could melt the fucking hardest of hearts. 

His skin crawls at the idea, not that it’s really Connor’s fault. It’s worked. Even if Connor’s entirely unaware. 

“You can fuck me-” Connor begins, entirely recovered, entirely composed and it pisses Hank off so much that he hauls him by the thighs, hard enough that the skin goes white and thrusts hard and deep. Hank would never with a human, thrust into them unprepared and suddenly because it would end badly for all parties involved but Connor, he just knows, with his unending perfection and well written codes, will have accounted for this exact reaction. Connor’s fucking tight and _wet_. A pretty odd feeling, warm in a way that’s slightly unnatural. Hank’s eyes flutter against the feeling and he just misses the way that Connor’s whole body goes taunt, shock filling his features as his back arches. 

“Hank…” It’s so fucking real and breathy and helpless and everything Hank wants to hear. 

Thrusting is easy, Connor takes it so well, jaw dropped but otherwise pretty still, hips responsive, thighs squeezable. 

“Can you feel this?” he asks, breathless now. 

Connor’s eyes flutter open. That bland look back on his features, as though this is just a mission with an end. 

“Does it matter?” 

“Does it?- Yeah, Connor, it matters” 

Connor’s eyes widen, filling with something Hank can’t pinpoint, before he’s got Connor’s hand guiding the spare one back to the open wound on his stomach. 

His hips stutter. 

Connor flops back hard enough to make his hair splay across the sheets. 

“Please don’t make me ask” Connor sounds desperate - begging, ironically. Hank decides not to say that now. He understands the sentiment. It’s funny that neither of them will ever take responsibility. Connor will act like he was only infiltrating and Hank will act like he was just angry, needing an outlet and Connor was easy. 

But there is more to it than that, they both know, underneath it all. It’s terrifying for them both. 

“I hope you trust me” Hank murmurs. 

“Why-” Connor only gets halfway before he cries out. Hank pulls the regulator out. 

Connor’s shock gives way to an odd wide eyed bliss. The small piece feels heavy in Hank’s hand and the power rush of the whole thing makes him thrust faster, hard enough that Connor gives up matching him and goes ragdoll limp. 

“I- I -” He tries, all static and blank eyes and ragged breaths. 

It’s probably the hottest thing Hank’s seen in a long, long time. Connor’s stomach is twitching and tensing, skin reforming and receding, legs bucking around Hank’s waist, eyes blank and jaw dropped, one eyebrow cocked. 

He puts the pump just to the side, makes sure he can grab it and trails his fingers around the hole it’s left. 

A strange garbled noise comes out of Connor that makes Hank speed up more. Connor’s eyes flutter at that, tongue lolling ever so slightly. 

“God if you could see yourself” 

_If they could see you._

The inside of Connor is much hotter now, almost difficult to touch but he lets his fingers trail across the maze of exposed wires, enjoying how Connor writhes and moans, hands twitching uselessly at his sides as he says something that could be Hank’s name. 

Connor’s loud, not just his moans but his whole body. Clicking and cooling, stuttering like an old laptop. 

“God I-” He catches Connor trying. “Hank - Hank -” 

“I’ve got you” 

He notices Connor’s hand blinding reaching for the part, Hank pulls it out of his reach. Thrusting harder as they lock eyes. Connor’s fear edges into something else, wary but softening. Until some realisation dawns on the boy that makes him tilts his head back, thrusting helplessly back against Hank, arching into the fingers pulling at wires. 

“I’ve got you” 

Every movement knocks the breath out of Connor, his eyes are full of a heady mixture of arousal and fear. Hank knows it well. 

Well, maybe not quite this well, it’s a little more risque than choking out your partner. Literally holding their life in your hand. 

But Connor has nothing to lose. 

“You’re good, Connor” He whispers and the praise seems to do something to him. He’s a bloodhound for it in the field that it’s unsuprising he likes it here too. “You’re doing so good”   
  


A line of blue makes its way out of Connor’s nose as his eyes unfocus on Hank, jaw dropping a little. 

It makes him think back - christ - only a few days ago to when this would have filled him with such immense satisfaction. It still does a little, makes his cock _ache_ inside him but moreover he wants to see what happens next. He strokes Connor's cheek, up to his hair. 

Connor convulses hard, hand clutching at Hank’s desperately as his nostrils flare. 

He takes his hand out the hole and holds the bio-component just an inch off Connor’s stomach. 

Connor bucks up, as if trying to force it back in. 

He must have seconds, must be seeing red, must be freaking the fuck out and still can’t stop moving his hips against Hank’s, can’t stop moaning all static. 

He wonders what it’s like to lose control of a body you’re so fully conscious off. Probably pretty freeing, in a way. 

God, he’s so close. Connor’s so hot around him, getting hotter by the second, twitching and writhing in a way that makes him tighten around Hank in a perfect way. 

Connor’s shaking gets worse and worse and worse until - 

Hank puts the part back and Connor throws himself up, arms thrown around Hank, desperate and trembling. He takes shaky, shaky sobs, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“Hank…” 

Fuck he sounds reverential, inbetween the sobs. It’s enough, more than enough, to push him over the edge. 

He kisses him hard, listens to how overwhelmed Connor sounds by it, desperately trying to open it wide to breath harder, even if Hank just keeps stroking his tongue. He can’t imagine how sensitive Connor must be but he takes for granted that this must be good for him. 

He doesn’t even ask if he can cum in Connor just does because some petty part of him hopes cyberlife find traces when they disassemble him, _if_ they disassemble him. 

“God I think I love you” He whispers, hand stroking through Connor’s hair. He’s deadweight in Hank’s arms. Head heavy but limbs oddly light, you can feel where all the parts are located based on the way Connor’s weight is distributed, it’s strangely sweet. 

He’s so doll like.

His eyes are open but he’s unresponsive. The LED off entirely. 

“Connor?” 

Nothing. 

For a moment he worries he put it in too late, that he literally fucked Connor to death and the poor thing is waking up in some Cyberlife plant somewhere having to explain himself. 

He slides his hand under Connor’s jaw to where he knows the on-button is, breath still hard, fingers still sweaty. 

It clicks in and for a moment Connor’s features look so soft, innocent and not like he’s stopping a whole revolution, lips parted and eyes half shut. If his eyes were closed he’d look asleep. Hank, for a moment, realises he could just keep him here, switch him back off and hide him until this all blows over. Make sure nothing can happen to him. 

But he’s not that fucking sappy and he doubts Connor would ever forgive him. 

The LED whirls to life and Connor’s body moves just a little, like someone coming out of a deep sleep. He hopes that what it felt like for him. 

His eyes flicker to a sudden awareness before they focus on Hank and soften just a little. His fingers open and close before he lies back again, as though he’s catching his breath. 

“Hey” He says, as if that’s an adequate opener to all that’s just happened between them. 

“Did I-” Connor stops himself and restarts. “Was that good?” 

Praise _bloodhound._ Hank just blinks, hands holding Connor’s shoulders as he moves like a man possessed. 

“Are you okay?” he asks as Connor tries to sit up, hands going straight for the trousers Hank threw on the floor. 

“I’m fine” He pauses. “More than fine, really. Thank you” 

That’s a shitty response but whatever. Hank won’t push him. 

“You didn’t need to turn me back on. I just-” He swallows “I had to reboot, it was just -” 

“Too much?” Hank asks. 

Connor throws a glare over his shoulder as he pulls his trousers back on. 

“You don’t need to look so pleased with yourself” 

Hank throws his hands up in mock surrender. 

Connor slides his shirt on and then looks back as though he has so much he wants to say but can’t articulate, or like he’s cycling through all the things he could say. 

“You should get some sleep” He settles on. “I’ll wait in your kitchen” 

Hank rolls his eyes, hauling on a hoodie. He should have expected this. For Connor to abruptly detach after getting too close. 

He can’t get the sound of Connor’s stupid broken voice out his head and he knows, because he knows Connor, that he’ll sit and stew over it all night in Hank’s cold kitchen. 

“Connor for fucks sake-” He doesn’t mean to sound so aggressive. 

“I’m fine. Whatever post-coital tristesse you’re going through. I don’t want to be part of it-” He cuts himself off, angry at his own abrasiveness. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for” 

“Uncalled for? Connor, I don’t know what tristesse _is._ Just come back to bed, for my sake. So I have something to cuddle. We don’t have to talk about any off that if you don’t wanna”

They both know it’s a lie. One of them will have to mention it. Hank to get a rise the next time Connor gets all robo-cop on him. Connor maybe just to understand it better. One of them will have to face it. 

He wonders if he should say something now though, as Connor slides awkwardly into bed beside him, face ashen with a mixture of anxiety and shame. Tell him what happened was okay, entirely normal and not at all weird for Hank. Worse, he wonders if Connor heard him, heard is stupid fucking confession. 

But he doesn’t because he doubts either of those are the problem, even if they would be for any _person_. 

He knows Connor will be over-analyzing every response to make sure there is nothing wrong with him, make sure today can be a glitch by tomorrow. 

He wants to help, he really does, but there isn’t much he can say. 

His own fear, that he’s taken advantage or overstepped a mark, keeps him from facing this truly. 

If only Connor were just a piece of plastic, maybe he’d be less of a coward about what just happened. 

But he’s not. 

“That was better than good, Connor’’ he says softly. “And don’t, eh, worry about any of it okay. I’m just a kinky fuck” 

He neglects the part where Connor begged him to take him apart because he’s looking so worried again, so mutely terrified.

“Get some rest, Lieutenant.” He says softly. “I’ll be here in the morning” 

  
  


He doesn’t dare ask Connor how statistically low the chances of them getting a shot at making this work are, they’ll depress him too much. 

But for now, at least, he knows he’s given Connor something. Maybe, just maybe, a reason to fight this thing.

The snow whips the glass pane and the city howls with police cars. 

The gentle blink of blue from Connor should be distracting but it’s almost comforting. 

For what it’s worth, Hank thinks, just maybe, that’s a colour he could get use to seeing every night. 

  
  



End file.
